15 The Disclaimer

There are a few things afoot for this girl at the moment, which is all very good but has meant that my blog has taken a back-seat. I haven't abandoned it, nor is it the case that I've just nothing to talk about. Quite the contrary actually. It is just down to time constraints and I hope that normal service will be resumed by next week.

Unfortunately I couldn't wait until then to inform you that the sad day has come and that I've had to put a disclaimer on this blog. I was worried that if I left it any longer I might get sued in the meantime.

It started when a guy I know got in touch to say that he'd read one of my earlier posts, The Headmaster about a disastrous haircut I'd had. He'd taken note of my comment that you wear your hair every day and shouldn't scrimp when getting a new 'do'. He decided to forgo his usual trip to the barbers and instead splash out on a trip to a proper salon.

The problem was that as well as being £40 poorer, he also hated his new look and wondered 'what I was going to do about it.'

Er..?

The next thing was that when planning a night out with a friend she insisted I confirm by text that I will not write about any of our antics.

Now I can't win with this one. Some people worry that I will blog about them, whereas others are upset when I don't!

Some even inform me how they want to be described in the posts, which is all very well, but if I did as they asked you could be mistaken for thinking that I hang around with supermodels.

Recently, I've had many people tell me that they read about my money pot riches and they too are going to do that too.

Now I'm really sorry to be the bearer of bad news but the pots are not magic. You can do all the wishing and rubbing you want, but if you've only put £6.47 in, £6.47 is what you will get out. The money does not procreate and have little money babies. The trick is to have it for years like I did and lose track of what it has got in it. (See picture above for reference purposes)

So, in conclusion this blog will now bear the footnote that everything you read here is purely the opinion of the author and you should not take any of her advice unless you are mental. It is also recommended that you do not try anything at home unless supervised by a responsible adult. And you also need not worry that I will write about anything you say or do on nights out with me. I mean I have not mentioned anything about Taggart getting us barred from a bar after she was sick on the dance floor now have I? No, I haven't because I am extremely discreet*.

*Note that this rule does not apply to any men that have treated me badly. Rest assured that you will at some point definitely feature in here. And I won't even change your name. That means you Alan, Gerry, Robert, Jamie...

40 D-Day

I've been on a few dates in my time. Probably more than the average person. Yet after you read about my date with fellow blogger Fishy, you could well wonder whether I've ever been on any.

It all started fine, albeit early. Alarm went off at 7am. Pressed 'Snooze' while cursing my bright idea of going to Belfast. Who has to get up at Ridiculous O'Clock to go on a first date?

Once I'm in the shower though, I feel excited. Like I'm going on holiday or something. I suppose I am. Sort of. Just a weird sort of holiday that only lasts a day. And I'm going with a stranger. But still.

Get dressed in pre-arranged outfit. Give myself an imaginary 'high five' for choosing a day-date. No need to worry about whether to wear heels and run the risk of looking over-dressed. Casual all the way. I've opted for jeans and boots and a grey jumper (it's off the shoulder though in case I want to look a bit sultry.)

Dither over jewellery. I like weird stuff. Should I tone it down? Decide to be the real me. Wear my current favourite earrings - a miniature knife and fork. My friend's 3 year old daughter Summer told me they were horrible and asked why I'd want to wear a knife and fork in my head. I'm sure Fishy will like them though. Particularly if I tell him I made them myself for little over a £1.

Do my face and hair. Decide that my eyebrowist has got a bit over-excited in my last threading session. She's made me look a bit surprised. Put on my make-up. Subtly. Wish I could say the same about my hair. Feel that I've got a bit carried away with products.

Get my stuff together. Purse...check! Passport...check! (Decide I looooove saying 'Passport - check!' Particularly when going on a date.) New tube of Lucky Lipgloss - Check!

Oh yes, my Lucky Lipgloss. Fishy can keep all his elaborate techniques to get a snog. I have a secret weapon. Not only does this lipgloss plump up your lips and smell lush, it also never fails to get me a kiss. Never fails. Never.

Am just congratulating myself on my light 'packing' then something weird happens and I seem to think I'm actually going to the Antarctic on a date. I put in a scarf, a hat, gloves and a cardigan. My bag suddenly looks huuuuge. Worry that Fishy's going to think I'm hoping to move in with him.

Make my way to the bus station. Am really, really nervous. What is wrong with me? Might be all the texts from friends wishing me luck. Never before has a love story generated so much interest. Feel like 'Brangelina'. Decide I'll reply to them all when Fishy goes on one of his long toilet breaks.

Have been a bit over-eager and arrive at the station early. Have a mooch around the shop. Flick through magazines. Am paying for some sweets when a man comes into the shop singing 'Old MacDonald Had a Farm'.

The shop assistant isn't amused. Tells me she wish he would 'Piss off.' She needs to take a leaf out of my 'Good Mood Book.'

As I leave the man starts talking to a packet of Jacobs. Tells them that he is the same as them, crackers.

Have a sweet. For reasons unbeknown to myself, I've bought Werther's Originals. It's 8:30 am for God's sake! There should really be a law against that. If only to stop people like me committing a dating faux pas - they really stick to your teeth.

I struggle to prise open my mouth when my friend calls to ask how I am. Tell her I'm nervous. She says nervous is good. I believe her, even though I don't really know what she means.

Bus to Liverpool arrives. I struggle to find my purse amidst all the guff in my bag. Bus driver tells me I'm like a typical woman with my big handbag. Curse myself for being a cliche.

Get to the airport and head straight to the ladies to sort myself out. Give myself a pep talk. Not out loud. Don't want to be like Mr Jacob's Crackers. Apply my Lucky Lipgloss and I'm good to go.

Wait at the pre-arranged spot and I realise my nerves have gone. I'm just feeling excited. Maybe cause I'm in an airport. I like airports a lot.

Then finally...after all the days of phoning, texting and blogging, Fishy appears in front of me.

Finally we meet.

Finally he's here and uttering the words every girl wants to hear...

'I'm not going to kiss you by the way.'

Eh? But what about my 'Never Fail Lucky Lipgloss'? Am I hearing right?

It's clearly faulty. I decide never to buy from eBay again.

30 An Open Email to Fishy

From: Rapunzel - moderndayrapunzel@googlemail.com
To: Fishy - pmfoutofwater@yahoo.co.uk
Date: Tuesday 26 January 2010

Oh Fishy,

You had to go and spoil things didn't you?

It was all going so well. Bamberio suggested we go on a date and being a reader of your blog and finding you hilarious, I thought/hoped that you were a man after my own heart and nothing could go wrong.

And nothing was going wrong. Even our first phonecall, which you were dreading, was better than we could both ever have hoped. We both got excited about our date. Everyone else got excited too. A friend even texted me to say she was going to buy a hat.

Now unfortunately my friends aren't so sure. All because of your last post.

It doesn't matter too much about the fact you've acted very blase about this date, because you and I both know that isn't true. The constant texts say otherwise. In fact I've been told that if you'd sent just another couple more I would have had reasonable grounds to take out a restraining order against you.

Yes I know that you love my accent, and that you think I look lovely in my facebook picture, but there are only so many times that a girl wants to hear it.

No, that isn't the problem though. The problem is that my friends know that I'm very fussy and they are actually questioning my sanity in agreeing to go out with you since you made your little confessions. Some are even a bit worried for my safety. They'd hoped that you would be an improvement on Mr Trafford Centre, not worse.

Despite my own concerns, I'm a woman (albeit young-looking) of my word, so I will still go on this date as planned.

You can dream on about trying your tricks in order to get a kiss though, as they won't wash with me. I've promised Taggart that I will carry a personal alarm and you really don't want to hear the noise that makes.

love Rapunzel x

22 Bye Dolly!

I have high hopes for 2010.

It has to be better than last year. I mean don't get me wrong, 2009 wasn't awful. I don't have any real complaints, but as I explained to my flatmate it was just a nothingy year.

"Nothingy?" He enquired.

"Yeah just nothing really happened. I won't really remember it for anything in particular. Bit boring actually."

Flatmate went back to watching his favourite programme Nothing to Declare while I mulled over what I'd done in 2009.

I'd shared my beautiful abode with three different people. A pilot from Ireland, an IT consultant from Mumbai and now current roomie from Oz, who does god knows what.

I did lots of different jobs. Some were emotional, like the documentary filming parents of disabled children. I had my eyes opened and met the most amazing people on that.

Some jobs were a bit more light-hearted, like the one where I was sent to Greece for three weeks with a cameraman I'd never met before. Luckily for me, he was one of the nicest guys ever and we had a ball. I just wasn't so keen on him when he filmed me jet-skiing. Or to be more specific, that he filmed the bit where I tried to get on the jet-ski. I've never looked so unladylike. And my ass looked huge. I'm sure that must have been the wide-angle lens.

There were jobs, that I'm not sure what possessed me to do them, like the night I spent working in a lap-dancing club. I could lie and pretend it was also for a documentary, but it wasn't. Just so you know, I worked behind the bar, not as a dancer. I made £32 in tips and trust me, I wouldn't have made anything close if I'd been dancing in my knickers!

I suppose I went to quite a few places last year. Taggart and I had a credit crunch holiday in Southampton and Brighton. I laughed at comedians at the Edinburgh Festival, I had a cream tea in Devon, I saw beautiful stars in Cornwall and in Cheltenham I...er...did some filming.

It was the year of catching up with friends I hadn't seen for eons. My friend that I met when I was 18 and worked in Portugal in an Indian restaurant, my friend that I met when I worked in Gran Canaria in er..an Indian restaurant and my friend that I lived with when I studied in Canada (was too busy being a student to work in a restaurant, Indian or otherwise!)

I also fell in love in 2009. A friend suggested I go to Barcelona with him when he read on Facebook that I'd bought a new bikini and had nowhere to wear it. So I did. That's when I fell in love. With Barcelona.

Of course it wasn't all good. There were a few terrible things that happened. Like when I was measured and I discovered I'm an inch shorter than I thought and I've been kidding myself for years.

And the time my dad's car was broken in to and I had two bags of clothes and nine pairs of shoes stolen. I was distraught. I even contemplated phoning Victim Support. My brother was as sympathetic as usual. He told me my clothes were shit anyway and the thieves had actually done me a favour.

That's about it. Nothing else happened in 2009.

Except I suppose for when I dressed as Dolly Parton and had a 'boob off ' with another Dolly.

And it was the year I dyed my hair blue.

It was also the year I had a wee in an £8million house that Robbie Williams considered buying.

And the year I 'performed' with a group of muscly, long-haired men wearing nothing but kilts and playing the bagpipes. I accompanied them on the maracas.

It was the year I was on TV in the audience of Don't Forget the Lyrics.

And it was the year an old man stopped me in Kwik Save because he thought I was Lisa Marie Presley.

It was also the year that a taxi driver in Greece wouldn't give me my change until I showed him my party piece (that's not a euphemism by the way, I do have a special trick I do with my double jointed arms..!)

So yeah, like I said. Not much happened.

2010 had better be better!